


Gifts Unpacked

by mcicioni



Category: Italy Unpacked (TV) RPF
Genre: Gen, Gen (M/M sex implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 15:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: In Southern Italy, Giorgio and Andrew eat a new dish, visit some ruins, and make a few discoveries.





	Gifts Unpacked

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is based on the public personae of two real people, but the situations and emotions in the story are entirely my invention.
> 
> It's all true about the two bodies in the Garden of the Fugitives.
> 
> All my warmest thanks to darcyone, for great language suggestions, and colisahotnorthernmess, for invaluable help with language and characterisation.

**Part 1: Salerno**

The flat the producers have found for them in Salerno is halfway up a hill. From the balcony they can see the hills, the wide bay, the seafront promenade and the older of the two piers. The town centre is five minutes’ walk away. Andrew is delighted: on previous visits he only drove through Salerno on his way to Pompeii, this is his first real stay. And Giorgio knows Salerno and has promised Andrew various art-related pleasures.

The first morning, as soon as they get up, Giorgio sends Andrew off to look at the Cathedral and at the Castle of Arechi, instructing him not to show up again until one o’clock at the earliest. When asked what he’s up to, he just grins, mutters something about a surprise lunch, splays a large hand on Andrew’s back and pushes him out of the door.

Andrew returns shortly after one o’clock, his face pink with the Southern Italian sun and a look of utter joy. He has not been anywhere near the medieval castle, he has spent the whole morning in the Cathedral, and is eager to share his delight at the mix of architectural styles, the ceiling frescoes, and the crypt.

Giorgio gives him a quick, hard kiss before decreeing, “No _waffaling_ about art at lunchtime.” His eyes are huge and full of light, and he’s obviously happy with the magic he has worked in Andrew’s absence. The table is set with colourful ceramic plates and two serving platters, one with a luscious Caprese salad, the other with cold slices of something meaty that is slippery and dark red on the outside and two shades of green on the inside. 

Andrew sits down and points at the red and green slices. “And this is …?”

“The surprise lunch! Taste and guess.”

Looking put-upon, Andrew puts a slice on his plate. The taste is complex, sharp and minty, vaguely reminiscent of the blood sausages he had loathed in his boarding-school days. He frowns at Giorgio’s amused expression.

“Offal of some kind,” he says, slightly turning his nose up. “But …” he takes another bite and chews slowly, enjoying the blend of flavours that burst into his mouth as the sausage thing starts to crumble, “… it’s good. Seriously good.” He takes another forkful, nods, and says firmly, “And now tell me what it is.”

Giorgio eats a whole slice in two mouthfuls and smiles broadly, waving his right hand. “A typical dish of _cucina povera_ , poor people’s food. Very popular in Salerno.” Andrew makes an Italian “get on with it” gesture, Giorgio laughs. “Beef spleen, stuffed with lots of mint and lots of parsley, and simmered in red wine vinegar.”

“ _Spleen_? Are you trying to kill me?” Andrew’s face twists in a grimace. “You know what the function of spleen is, don’t you? It _filters blood_ !” He glares at the bright red-and-green slices. “Don’t you remember what Brutus says to Cassius, _By the gods, you shall digest the venom of your spleen_ ? No, you’re Italian, of course you don’t.”

Giorgio ignores the taunt. “You loved it until you knew what it was. And,” he adds, his words broken by sputters of laughter, “You eat liver, don’t you? And I’ve fed you fried brains and tripe in tomato sauce, and you have lived to this day.” He pushes the platter towards Andrew. “Have some more. And don’t forget the Caprese, the buffalo mozzarella is incredible, they make it around here, they breed buffaloes. It’s been a local tradition for centuries, you know? It’s nectar and ambrosia combined. Just don’t scoff it all yourself.”

Andrew gives him a sour look, but he never can resist Giorgio’s exuberant streams of words, and the gleaming white mozzarella _is_ incredible. After a light, creamy, slightly salty mouthful, he is in heaven; all he can do is look up at Giorgio and make sounds of decadent pleasure.

Giorgio, bless him, refrains from any victorious _Told you so_ or _Te l’avevo detto io_. What he does say is a cheerful “Great. And I have two more treats in store for you. First …” he pulls Andrew up and gently pushes him in the direction of the bedroom. “And then I’ll take you to another …” Andrew turns around, grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him, shutting him up quickly and effectively. For a minute or so at least.

 

The afternoon sun is streaming through the wooden shutters. Andrew props himself up on an elbow and studies Giorgio, who is lying on his back, dishevelled, sated, and hopefully tired out. “And the second way of making it up to me for the boiled spleen was …?”

Giorgio jumps out of bed and heads for the bathroom. “You’ll see. A mystery tour. I call first _deebs_ on the shower.”

“Not another bloody mystery!” Andrew’s thrown pillow misses Giorgio and falls on the floor. There are only three years between them, but sometimes Giorgio’s energy makes Andrew feel like a crotchety eighty-year-old.

 

They climb a steep hill and enter the Gardens of Minerva. “Two hours before they close. We’ll have to hurry a bit.”

Andrew looks around, at the wide, symmetrical garden with semi-circular flower beds, where hundreds of different herbs are neatly arranged and labelled: in the fourteenth century, this was the garden of the Salerno Medical School.

“They had this theory that there were four humours, and different plants cured different illnesses.” Giorgio is only faintly embarrassed at being the one who does the explaining. Andrew has read about the gardens, but Giorgio is the one who’s more familiar with them; Andrew listens carefully, with fondness and a little surprise at his partner’s unexpected scholarship.

“Let’s see.” Giorgio reads a couple of labels and starts chuckling. “Rosemary. Good for the spleen.”

Andrew gives him a small shove. “Stop it.”

“Sage. _Salvia_ . Salvific. What a good word. It had digestive and antiseptic properties.”

They climb a white open staircase to the next level. There are four levels; the higher they get, the more they can see of the gardens and the bay. On each level there’s an ornate fountain, which they point out to each other, smiling.

Giorgio is still in explaining mode. “Capers were used against gout and rheumatism, and mint was a digestive.” He smirks, “Good to cook spleen in.”

Andrew lets him have the last word. Almost the last one. “Clever people, the _salernitani_ ,” he says softly. “They built these gardens, how do you Italians put it? _L’utile e il dilettevole_ , useful and enjoyable.” A broad grin flashes across Giorgio’s face; Andrew really should speak Italian to him more often. “Beauty and functionality, always the ideal, at any time in human history.” He looks at Giorgio, directly and seriously. “That was a great gift. Thank you.”

Giorgio puts an arm around Andrew’s shoulder, just a little possessively. “ _Andiamo_ .” Let’s go. It’s their word, their refrain, when they move from one experience to the next.

Andrew doesn’t mind at all. “ _Andiamo_ .”

 

**Part 2: Pompeii**

It’s hot. For hours they have been traipsing among the ruins of the town where thousands of people lived before being wiped out by the eruption of the Vesuvius in 79 AD. Giorgio has only been here once, on a school trip, and can’t remember much, except that the boys were not allowed to see naughty frescoes or to visit the remains of the brothel.

Andrew leads Giorgio down the main street, the Street of Plenty. He takes him to the forum and tells him about Roman trade, and then to the amphitheatre, where they talk about gladiators. They go into the brothel, where Andrew, witty and well-informed as ever, deciphers and explains the list of services and prices. In a villa full of frescoes and mosaics he enthuses about very recent discoveries, such as the naughty fresco showing a woman having sex with a swan (well, the god Jupiter impregnating the mortal Leda).

It is fun, and that’s what the two of them do in the show – the combination of their areas of expertise is what makes their formula successful. But away from the cameras, although of course he’s grateful to Andrew, at times Giorgio guiltily thinks that all of these paintings and frescoes and mosaics end up being more of a duty than a pleasant experience. He also wonders if one of Andrew’s life goals might be to make him into an intellectual, something he never was and never wants to be. So at times he’s uncomfortable, uneasy. He sighs as he keeps walking.

“Let’s go to the Macellum, the food market,” Andrew suggests, possibly aware that things are beginning to get tense.

Giorgio does perk up when he spots the huge food hall: “Looks like a temple!” He wanders around the remains of the small shops that sold vegetables, fruit, meat and fish, and even hot and cold drinks. He loves the _couponae_ , the Roman equivalent of tapas bars, where customers could buy snacks that they could eat while standing.

“So what _did_ they eat in the first century?” Andrew asks.

Giorgio happily starts holding forth. “Lots of bread. Olives. Cheese. Chick peas and lentils. Vegetables. Fish and sea urchins, like the ones I fed you in Sicily. Oh yeah, and garum. You would absolutely hate it. They had it with everything, a sauce made with fermented fish _enterails_ .” Andrew makes his best disgusted face, he looks adorable when he wrinkles his upper-class English nose.

Giorgio giggles and adds, “Plenty of offal. Probably spleen.” He moves sideways, but not fast enough; Andrew manages to give him a clip around the ear, and warns him, “Don’t start _that_ again.”

“Can’t help fooling around, I’m a peasant,” Giorgio quips, and as the words leave his mouth he realises that he actually means them. “I can only stand culture in small doses. Too much culture drives me crazy.”

Andrew frowns and opens his mouth to speak, then stops himself. “All right,” he says after a couple of seconds. “You’ve had enough. More than. I’ll just show you one more thing and then it’s back to Salerno. I’ll drive if you want to nap.” How can Giorgio not love him to pieces?

The “one more thing” Andrew insists they should see is the Garden of the Fugitives. Over two thousand men, women and children died, asphyxiated by ash or boiled alive in 300-degree heat, while fleeing from the fire and lava. Archaeologists found thirteen bodies and, to preserve them, made plaster casts that captured their last moments, their last actions.

Giorgio and Andrew stand silently side by side in front of the glass cases where the bodies lie. Their shoulders are brushing, and they’re both glad of the contact. Inside a case, one man is sitting on the ground, knees up, hands covering his face. Another’s mouth is open in a silent scream. A little girl is clinging to her mother, almost climbing up her body, in an everlasting moment of terror.

“How little we matter to nature,” Andrew whispers. “Tsunamis. Earthquakes. This.”

“War,” Giorgio says, quietly, angrily. “The imprint of the little girl on the street of Hiroshima. Innocent, like these people.” He stops abruptly, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

Andrew touches his elbow. “But look here.” He points to a case where two bodies lie hugging each other in a final tender embrace, one resting his head on the other’s chest. Andrew lowers his voice. “They used to be known as the Two Maidens. But a couple of years ago scientists ran DNA tests on their skeletons. They were two young men. Probably lovers.”

Giorgio gazes at the men, and then at Andrew, without speaking. He gives the men one last, long look and slowly turns around and walks away.

“Death can be so _inpredictable_ ,” he reflects, almost to himself, as they walk towards the car park.

“Unpredictable,” Andrew corrects absently. Giorgio stops, looks at him, nods and looks away.

Andrew frowns a little. “You don’t mind if I sometimes …?”

Giorgio shakes his head. “No, of course not. The opposite. I want you to.” A quick grin. “And I can correct your Italian as well. Now be quiet for a moment, I’m trying to remember something.” He goes to stand in the shadow of a tree, whips his smartphone out of his pocket, keys something into the Google page, finds what he wanted, scrolls down for a while and gestures Andrew over. “ _Ecco_ , that’s it. I know you speak Italian, _Andrea_ , but I really want you to understand, it really matters,” he grabs Andrew’s wrist to emphasise his point, “I’ll translate it for you. _Senti qui_ , listen to this.” And he translates aloud, slowly and carefully: “ _It wasn’t at all a friendship between two similar types: on the contrary, the difference in our origins made us rich in ‘goods’ to exchange, like two merchants from remote, mutually mysterious lands._ ” He looks at Andrew. “Exchanging goods. You and I do that too. As gifts, not trade.”

Andrew’s eyes widen. He nods and then smiles, his beautiful smile with eyes wide and warm and a dimple in one of his cheeks. “Where’s this from?”

Giorgio feels a small wave of heat rise up to his face even though they are away from the sun. “A book I first read as a teenager. I love it. It’s called _Il sistema periodico, The Periodic Table_ , it’s not a novel, but it’s not a chemistry book either. It’s about a lot of things. Science. Fascism. Death. And friendship.” 

“Oh. I read it too, as a young man, when it was translated into English. It's a great book. But I had completely forgotten about that passage.” Andrew puts an arm around Giorgio’s shoulders and draws him closer. “Why’d you come up with it right now?”

Giorgio focuses, he has to get this right. “I’m a cook, a good one, and I learn mostly through my mouth, right? And you, you learn mostly through your brain. And we exchange our different knowledge, that’s what our show is about, no? But we don’t just do it in the show. We do it when we’re alone. We do it all the time. And sometimes it’s the other way around, I know about the mind, like this book, and you know about the body, like those … how do you say this in English? … those _fossilizzati_ bodies that you just showed me.” He takes a breath, but he can’t stop now, he just can’t. “When that happens, that’s when I love you the most.”

Andrew says nothing, but cradles Giorgio’s face between his hands and kisses him, long and firm and passionate, until Giorgio closes his eyes and stops thinking about knowledge altogether. When they break apart, they exchange a smile and walk to the car. Andrew holds a hand out for the keys.

 

It’s less than an hour back to Salerno on the _autostrada_ , an easy drive among small villages scattered on the hills, surrounded by long rows of vines. They don’t need to talk. But when they’re about halfway back, Andrew takes his eyes off the road for a second, gives Giorgio a level look, and says, “Don’t ever call yourself a peasant again.” 

Giorgio blinks, remembers his attempt at a joke, looks out of the window. “All right. I won’t.” And after he says this, his body relaxes in the seat and his eyelids begin to grow heavy. He could have a nap – Andrew is a competent, safe driver, both on the right and on the left.

“Good,” Andrew says curtly, but his eyes are crinkled in a little smile. Giorgio dozes off, cheerfully wondering what (strictly non-offal) dishes he could cook for dinner.


End file.
